An umbrella in the wind
by Fantony
Summary: "Footsteps echo against the marble floor of the hallway. A brand new pair of YSL. The sound is slightly different when the heel is not used yet. I roll my eyes. It appears Anthea disregarded my recommendations." Suffering from brain tumour, Mycroft doesn't have much time left when Sherlock, informed by Anthea, visits him... One shot. POV Mycroft.


_**Please keep in mind that I'm French, hence the English mistakes )**_

_**Also, I'm perfectly aware Mycroft should speak in a more formal language, but again, English isn't my mother tongue. :) **_

_**NOTE: The scene takes place at Mycroft's house. He is in his bed during the whole scene, and Sherlock visits him. This is written in the first person, Mycroft POV. **_

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**AN UMBRELLA IN THE WIND**

Footsteps echo against the marble floor of the hallway. A brand new pair of Yves Saint Laurent. The sound is slightly different when the heel is not used yet. I roll my eyes. It appears Anthea disregarded my recommendations.

"Ah, there you are, Thank God!" You exclaim, entering the room. "There's such a dead silence here I thought just for a moment that I'd missed your funeral."

You nonchalantly drop your Belstaff on the bed and stop in front of the window, scanning the street.

"Oh, don't worry, brother dear. Mummy will make sure you have a ringside seat. Most likely next to Aunt Ada."

At the mention of our dear great-aunt whose facial hair is a bit of an inconvenience and whose kisses are a bit too wet, you turn to me, a horrified look on your face.

"Not on your nelly!"

"Well, the only way to escape that situation would be to accept MI6's mission and to go dismantling the illegal weapons traffic in Transnistria." **_(1)_**

A mission you declined a couple months ago. You pretend to weigh the pros and cons.

"Hmm... No. Boring."

Your gaze lingers on me for a moment. I know you're looking for clues. Clues that have escaped you in the last few months and which now appear so crystal clear you wonder how on Earth you missed them.

"You look awful," you end up saying.

"It seems so, yes."

My reflection in the mirror has never been very flattering, but this morning, it was particularly unpleasant. Dark rings under my eyes, hollow cheeks that make my nose stand out, thinning hair, face paler than ever. This is, once again, terribly unfair. Not only did nature endow you with a far more pleasant physique than mine, probably to make up for your intellectual shortcomings – at least that's what I've always tried to convince myself - , but moreover, it ensured that you look like an angel when sick or asleep. When I am ill, I just look... well, awful, as you so kindly informed me.

"I should have known it wasn't a diet," you add, alluding to my weight loss. "You've never stuck to a diet more than three weeks."

I open my mouth to argue but realise I'd be wasting my time. Perseverance is not really what characterises me best. Not in a kitchen, at least. Not on a treadmill either. With an exasperated sigh, you cross the room and, not bothering to bypass the bed, you just step on it, still avoiding my legs on your way –thank God!- and let yourself drop onto the chair on the other side of the bed.

"Good Lord, Sherlock! It's a cashmere blanket!" I exclaim, examining the muddy marks your shoes have left on the expensive piece of fabric.

"So what? Are you planning to wrap yourself in it in your coffin?" You ask curtly, as you start tapping your fingers nervously on the arms of the chair.

I roll my eyes once more and look at you take your head in your hands.

"For God's sake! My own brother... How could I have been so blind?!"

Ah. Here we are...

"Sherlock, I know your methods. It's child's play for me to keep things secret from you, really," I smirk.

You look up and your eyes tell me that you are upset. It's so easy to offend you, Sherlock.

"Do the dinosaurs know?"

Commenting on the brutal change of subject is a tantalizing idea, but I decide not to go so far, just like I wipe the slate clean and forget about the disrespect of our parents.

"You know as well as I do that if Mummy had gotten wind of that regrettable inconvenience, she would have moved in here. I'd rather die!"

My sarcasm gets a smile out of you but it fades away a bit too soon for my liking.

"But surely, the doctors could... I could ask John if..." you stammer.

"Sherlock, I'm sure Anthea didn't spare you that little detail: the tumour is inoperable. I am already on Stage 4. This is the end."

Funny how you sometimes think you have tamed an idea to the point it leaves you completely indifferent, until you verbalise it out loud and suddenly feel like you rediscover it. Strangely, it hurts more than I thought.

"For God's sake, Mycroft! Why didn't you tell me?!"

"And what difference would it have made?"

"I don't know. I wouldn't have... I would have been less..." Your voice breaks and you grit your teeth.

"Less what, Sherlock? Unpleasant? Childish? Arrogant? Oh, please, we both know it's not true."

"I'm not childish," you protest, pouting like you did as a child whenever I called you an idiot. Under different circumstances, I would have laughed at the irony.

"No. Of course not, Sherlock," I mock gently.

"John knows a couple of very good oncologists. We could have bought you time. A few weeks. Months, maybe."

"Buy me time for what? I sleep sixteen hours a day, I can't take two steps without losing balance, I can't work anymore... This morning, I couldn't even recall Anthea's real name! My intellectual abilities deteriorate more and more every day. Who knows? Maybe I won't even remember you tomorrow! I don't want to live this life any longer, Sherlock."

I know you understand. You are in the best position to understand, after all. You understand, but you don't accept it.

"But... You can't leave. This is wrong. It's not supposed to be that way..." You mumble.

This takes me back thirty years...

"_Are you going to die, Mycroft?"_

"_For Goodness' sake, Sherlock, it's just bronchitis!"_

"_Yes, I know. But are you going to die one day?"_

"_Obviously. We all are." _

"_Then I wanna die before you."_

"_Why that?" _

"_Because if you die first, I'd be too sad without you." _

"_Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage." _

That was the first time I told you my mantra, oh so hypocritical, since the words of a seven-year-old boy had just deeply moved the teenager I was. Since those words still deeply move the man I have become. Since those words, imbued with all the sincerity and the innocence of childhood, were the absolute evidence that I meant a lot to you. No, caring is not an advantage, but you have always been the exception to every rule. My biggest weakness, and my biggest strength as well. I feel so bad for abandoning you, Sherlock. I'd promised myself – I'd promised _you_ – that I'd never do that again. Oh, Sherlock...

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," I whisper.

You pretend not to understand.

"Sorry for what?"

Yes, you are childish. You're still that kid who tirelessly asks about everything and nothing, even when he is well aware of the answer. I let out a sigh. It is one thing to admit I've made mistakes, but enumerating them out loud is another matter entirely.

"For everything," I simply reply and I'm not that far from the truth.

"Oh please, we're not having this talk, are we?" You grumble, a look of disgust on your face.

I can't help but smile.

"No."

Your face relaxes a little.

"Good."

"Good," I repeat and then add after a few seconds: "It is a bit too late to fix my mistakes, anyway."

"Mistakes? What mistakes? I thought you never made any mistake. That's what you've been harping on at me since I was a child, isn't it?"

"Yes. It's true," I admit, slightly amused.

"Oh wait... Are you talking about all those years you've spent telling me how stupid I was, always sticking your nose where it didn't belong, using me to solve cases you could perfectly solve by yourself if you weren't such a lazy git, spying on my every move? Or are you making a reference to your Oxford years, you know, that long period where you thought it was ok to pretend you didn't have a little brother on the pretext that your career came first?"

Oxford... Yes... You'll never know how much I regret... If I had known how painful my silence was to you... If I had known into which fearsome spiral you were about to dive in an attempt to fill the void... I almost caused your downfall, Sherlock, and believe me, I would have never forgiven myself...

"Yes, well... I am not sure your tedious enumeration was of any use, not to mention your acute sense of exaggeration, but yes, I suppose you-"

"Mycroft," you cut me off and I am a bit taken aback. "The truth is that I wouldn't have had it any other way. Because I also remember the Mycroft who told me pirate stories when I couldn't sleep at night. I remember the Mycroft who always took on the blame whenever I did something stupid, which, I grant you that, happened quite often. I remember the Mycroft who punched Andrew Finn in the face the day that idiot called me a freak in front of everyone at school. I remember the Mycroft who taught me everything I know. Well, not quite, let's not exaggerate!" You chuckle. "I remember the Mycroft who held out his hand in that drug den, and saved my life. I remember the Mycroft who spent sleepless nights at hospital by my bedside, and don't look at me like that, I know you were there every night, the nurses told me. You've always been there, Mycroft. Always. Even when you were at Oxford, actually."

I raise an eyebrow.

"Third drawer of your desk. Not the best hiding place, if you ask me, brother mine. I would like to hope that you are a bit more careful when it comes to the government's top secret files," you tease and I suddenly realise in alarm where you are getting at. "You have to admit that writing hundreds of letters to me but never posting them was a tad stupid. One would think you didn't know what to do with your time at Uni."

Jesus Christ.

"You've always been there, Mycroft," you go on, hardly giving me the time to justify myself. "And I wouldn't have dreamt of a better brother."

You place your hand on mine and I nearly startle under your touch. There is an awkward silence, almost embarrassing. I would like to answer you. I would like to tell you that I, too, couldn't have dreamt of a better brother. I would like to tell you how much your words touch me. I would like to tell you how proud I am of you. How much you mean to me. But I feel like I'm paralyzed and my vision becomes blurry. No. Not that. Not now. I've never lost control in front of you. This can't happen now... Too late. I feel the tears running down my face in silence, burning my skin and for just a split second, I think I see panic in your eyes.

"That being said," you add, having apparently regained composure, "it never prevented you from being an insufferable prat."

I laugh. I laugh and I cry at the same time. This is the first time that has ever happened to me. The first time I've indulged in my emotions. The first time I haven't tried to contain them. And as surprising as it may seem, this doesn't feel that bad. I am going to die but I laugh heartily. And you laugh too.

Then there is another silence. Heavier this time, as if we had just realised that this was one of our last moments together.

"You're frozen," you say, caressing the back of my hand. "I'm going to get you another blanket."

You stand up but with what little strength I have left, I grab your wrist to hold you back.

"No! Stay! Please!"

It wasn't my intention to sound that desperate. This is almost pathetic. But after all, with the tears and your last revelations about the third drawer of my desk, I've already hit rock bottom. This can't be much worse. You hide your surprise somehow and nod, sitting back.

"Are you scared?"

"No," I lie.

"Well, I am."

"All lives end, Sherlock."

"You ramble."

"I am dying. I have an excuse."

You let out a giggle but immediately look serious again.

"What am I going to do without you, Mycroft?" You ask, chewing your lower lip nervously like I've never seen you do before.

"You've got John."

"He's got Mary," you retort. "Besides... it's not the same thing... And, well... England needs you."

"I merely occupy a minor position in the government."

"_**I**_ need you."

That's what you believe. That's what I used to believe too. The truth is that I've always needed you more than you ever needed me. You've got friends. John Watson. Mrs Hudson. Gareth Lestrade. Or is if Geoff? Me... I have no one but you, Sherlock.

"I'll always be there, Sherlock. In your mind palace."

And in your heart too, I hope.

The time goes fast. Very fast. Too fast. I tell you my concerns about the government and the vacant seat I am leaving behind and you mock me, telling me I think too highly of myself. You ask me for advice on a couple of cases, even if I know you hardly need it. We remember the good old days. We try to make up for lost time and I fight fatigue to make sure I don't lose any more time. Each minute spent with you is precious. But quite unexpectedly, you're the first one to fall into the arms of Morpheus. It is almost two o'clock in the morning and the three sleepless nights you spent proving that the death of this singer whose name has already escaped me was a murder disguised as a suicidal hanging, got the better of you.

I watch you sleep. You're so peaceful. So very unlike the cheeky Sherlock who stood up to me, wrapped in his sheet, at Buckingham Palace. You have no idea how difficult it was to hold back my anger. Who would have thought that I would once smile fondly at the memory?

I had been clinging to life lately in the only hope that I get to see you again. One last time. Yet I had strictly forbidden Anthea to contact you because deep inside I longed for that reunion as much as I feared it. And yet it's been more than I could have ever hoped for. Thank you, little brother. I've just spent the best evening of my life. I can leave, now. Nothing holds me back anymore. I am at peace with myself.

Oh, you will most certainly resent me having taken off on the sly, but we've never been too good at goodbyes anyway. Perhaps the letter I dictated for you to Anthea yesterday will comfort you a little.

However, there is one last thing I need to do before leaving. My hand shakes a little as I grab my phone from the bedside table and my fingers painfully move on the screen, before pressing 'Send'.

_Please John, take care of him. ~MH. _

I take one last glance at you. An angel, yes, really. I smile and close my eyes...

Here I am at the top of a hill. This place looks familiar. I look all around myself. This is the hill where we used to play so often during our childhood. You are there, too. Well, the five-year-old version of you, at least. You smile at me. It's drizzling. _Come under my umbrella, Sherlock, or you'll get soaked and Mummy won't be pleased!_ You don't move an inch, dark curls hanging wildly in front of your eyes. You soon become a blurry picture before disappearing into thin air.

I am alone on the hill. All alone, and I am a little cold. There's an East wind blowing. There's an East wind blowing. There's an East wind blowing and it takes my umbrella away... Far... Far away... It is time for me to fly away, too...

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_**(1) Located between Moldova and Ukraine, the self-proclaimed republic of Transnistria is a state where illegal weapons traffic is apparently a common practice. **_

**Thanks for reading ! :) **

**Published on April.13 2014 **


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